


Folklore

by bitchin_beskar



Category: Taylor Swift (Musician), triple frontier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, F/M, Fluff, Folklore, I will post warnings and A/Ns at the beginning of potentially triggering chapters, Taylor Swift's newest album is LIT, also some naughtiness, but y'all knew that was coming, each chapter is a different song, in the back of a pickup, may be triggering, mentions of depression, mentions of drug use, please double check the chapter notes before reading, under the stars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25484191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitchin_beskar/pseuds/bitchin_beskar
Summary: The soundtrack of your life with Frankie.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader
Kudos: 7





	1. the 1

**Author's Note:**

> This series is inspired by Taylor Swift's album, Folklore! Each chapter is named after a song from her album, and is inspired by that song as well! This is cross-posted on tumblr, under @mindless--ramblings! 
> 
> Enjoy!

You’d gotten the invitation in the mail this past Sunday.

You’d been flipping through the various ads and junk mail when the creamy white envelope caught your eye. You didn’t usually receive mail, so you were intrigued, to say the least. Setting the rest of your mail down on the marble countertop, you sit on one of the bar stools, turning the letter over in your hands. 

Your name and address is handwritten on the front, and for a moment you’re thrown. It’s this sense of déjà vu, like a dream that you can’t quite remember. You run your fingers absentmindedly over the grooves of your name, as though the envelope can show you what you’re missing. 

There’s a return address in the corner, but no name. You flip the envelope over, breaking the seal with your finger. You pull out the thick cardstock, and when you read what’s written, you nearly drop the paper in shock.

_Francisco Morales and Lori-Anne Jensen_

_Invite you to join them_

_in celebrating their marriage_

_On the 10th of May at 4:00 pm_

_Please RSVP by April 15th_

You stare at the words, waiting, as though they might change before your eyes. But the longer you stare at them, the more they cement themselves in your brain. Francisco Morales and Lori-Anne Jensen. Soon to be Francisco and Lori-Anne Morales. You’re startled when droplets of water hit the paper, marring the beautiful stationery. 

Shakily, you brush your fingers against your cheek, surprised to realize that you’re crying. You try to wipe away the tears, but you quickly realize it’s futile. The tears are coming too fast for you to stop them, so you quit trying. As you sit there, your mind flashes to the last time you’d seen Francisco. 

* * *

“I can’t do this, Frankie.” 

Your boyfriend of five years looked up at you in shock, the pupils of his eyes dilated, and his hands shaking. He tries to stand, but groans, grabbing at his stomach as he collapses back onto the couch. 

You’ve got tears in your eyes, but your resolve is strong. “I can’t watch you tear yourself apart. I–I can’t stand here and watch as you throw your whole life away!” Frankie tries to object, but your lip is quivering, and you _have_ to get the words out before you break down completely. 

“I’m sorry, Francisco, but I just can’t do this! I can’t–I can’t stand here and watch as the man I love disappears before my eyes! You refuse to get help, you refuse to even believe this is a problem, but it is!” You’re shouting now, trying to get him to understand. “God, how many times have I come home to find you high off your ass? How many times, Francisco?” 

He doesn’t answer, just stares up at you from his pitiful position on the couch. From the glazed look in his eyes, you’re not even sure he knows what you’re saying, or if he’ll remember when he comes down. 

“I’m done, Frankie. I–I, I just can’t anymore, okay? I can’t do this.”

You turn to leave, but you’re stopped by a hand on your shoulder. Frankie spins you around, holding you desperately. “Wait, baby, I–I’m sorry, I–” You cover his mouth with your hand, your vision blurry from your tears.

“You’ve said you’re sorry so many times, Frankie,” your voice breaks. “And we always end up back here. Why should now be any different?” 

He mumbles something underneath your palm, and you move your hand. “What was that?”

“I–I, I thought you loved me,” he whispers, and your heart breaks all over again. 

“I do, Francisco,” you say, your voice catching in your throat. You grasp the back of his neck and pull his lips to yours, hard. The two of you collide in a mess of lips and teeth and tongue. This kiss is desperate, frantic, as you try to convey everything you’re feeling into this one kiss. Your sorrow, your love, your hope and heartbreak, everything. Your cheeks are wet from your tears, and you think maybe some of Frankie’s too. You pull back, pressing one, two, three, hard but fleeting kisses against his lips. “I love you so much. But I can’t stay.”

* * *

You cover your mouth as a sob escapes your lips. You’d done such a good job of getting over him, or so you’d thought. You’d moved states, packing up everything in your life, except for him, and you’d just left. Your friends knew better than to mention him, and it had worked. You’d nearly forgotten about him.

At least, you’d thought so. But now, with this invitation in your hand, and tears in your eyes, you knew you hadn’t forgotten a thing. You should have known that his memory wouldn’t stop haunting you.

You thought you’d seen him at the bus stop the other day, and you’d almost called out his name before you realized it wasn’t him. You’d berated yourself the entire way to work, convincing yourself that he wasn’t in your life anymore. He wasn’t yours.

This invitation was just another reminder. He belonged to this… Lori-Anne, now. She was the one he came home to, the one he cooked dinner with, the one he kissed at night. Before you could stop yourself, you began to wonder how he met her. Lori-Anne Jensen wasn’t a name you recognized from high school, so that was out. You didn’t remember the name from college, either. Maybe he met her at a bar? Or out camping? Or on the internet, even? 

You shook your head. It wasn’t any of your business. You looked at the invitation for a long while. You could go, you supposed. See him one last time. He’d tried to talk to you, since that fateful night, but you’d never answered. After the first few months, he stopped trying. You’d heard from a friend of a friend that he’d gotten into rehab, but that it hadn’t lasted. It had nearly killed you, but you’d stood by what you’d said. You couldn’t watch him throw his life away. 

This Lori-Anne must be stronger than you were, to stand by him while he dealt with his problem. Or maybe he’d finally stopped. Maybe she’d been the thing he needed to get clean. You were happy for him. For them. You had to be. 

You hear the garage door open, and you quickly wipe your tears. You check your face in the reflection of the window, ensuring that there is no trace of your breakdown left. As the door opens, and footsteps enter the house, you drop the fancy invitation and the creamy envelope with the handwritten address–handwritten by _Frankie_ , your traitorous mind whispers–in the recycling bin. 

“Honey, are you home?”

Looking down at the large sparkling engagement ring on your finger, you sniffle one last time before plastering a smile on your face. 

“I’m in the kitchen, babe!”

* * *

_“I, I, I persist and resist the temptation to ask you_

_If one thing had been different_

_Would everything be different today?”_


	2. cardigan

“What do you say we get out of here?”

Frankie has to practically shout in your ear to be heard over the music playing in the bar, but you don’t care. You’re both tipsy, but not drunk, not quite. You’ve been dancing so long, your feet are killing you, and you almost regret wearing high heels, but then you remember the look that Frankie gave you when you stepped out of your house. 

He’d looked at you like you were the most beautiful star in the sky, and as soon as you’d climbed in his truck, his lips were on yours, pulling you deeper into his orbit. He’d kissed you breathless, and then some, and by the time he pulled away, the two of you were already ten minutes late, and you hadn’t even left the driveway yet.

You’d spent half the night dancing with your girl friends, while Frankie and some of the other guys watched from the bar. He’d finally joined you for the last few songs, allowing you to pull his arms around your waist and lead him in a dance so sinful, his grandmama would be rolling in her grave. 

When the two of you finally stumble out of the heat of the bar and into the cool night air, you’re both relieved and disappointed. Relieved because you knew if you’d stayed any longer, you would’ve been suckered into getting progressively drunker and drunker, and you really didn’t want a hangover tomorrow. Disappointed because leaving meant you wouldn’t have Frankie’s hands running over your body, his chest flush against your back, all under the guise of dancing. 

The two of you might not be drunk, but you’re both too tipsy to drive, so you begin the short walk to Frankie’s place. He didn’t live too far from the bar, and he could easily walk back and pick up his truck in the morning. 

The streets are empty, illuminated only by the old-fashioned streetlights on every corner. There are a few places still open, but for the most part, the town is quiet as the two of you make your way down the street. 

You reach for Frankie’s hand, slipping your fingers in between his and swinging both of your arms back and forth exaggeratedly. He chuckles at your antics, and you grin, looking up at his dark eyes under the brim of his baseball cap. Even in heels, he’s taller than you, although you don’t mind too much. As your eyes meet, his chuckles die, the air suddenly becoming thick and heavy, like it was in the bar.

The two of you have stopped walking, pausing under a streetlight, but neither of you take notice. Frankie’s got this look in his eyes, and before you can comment on it, his lips are back on yours. The hand not holding yours wraps around your waist, and you’re dragged against his warm chest, still slightly sweaty from the dancing earlier. You cup his cheek, letting him take the lead as he kisses you deeply. 

You can taste the beer on his lips, just like you know he can taste the tequila sunrise on yours. His tongue pushes into your mouth, memorizing you, like he hasn’t done this every weekend all summer. He slowly moves you back, until you’re resting against the cool metal of the lampost. You unlink your fingers, only to grab his hand and bring it up to your chest, pressing his warm palm against your breast through your–well, technically  _ his _ –sweatshirt. 

That’s all the invitation he needs, and you aren’t surprised when he slips his hand underneath your sweatshirt, his fingers leaving a hot trail from your navel to your heaving chest. You moan into his mouth when his fingers toy with your nipple, completely uncaring of the fact that the two of you are technically in public. 

His twisting and teasing fingers make you hotter and hotter, and before long you’re panting in his mouth, desperately grinding against his thigh as you try to find release. You suddenly hear a car in the distance, and the two of you break apart, but staying close enough that you’re breathing each other’s air. 

Frankie’s eyes are bright as he looks at you, shining, despite the light from the streetlamp casting shadows on his handsome face. “I love you, baby,” he whispers, laying a soft kiss against your lips.

You grin against his mouth, giggling when you feel his lips stretch into their own smile. “Why don’t we get back to your apartment, and I can show you how much I love you?”

***

The bed of Frankie’s truck was quite possibly your favorite place in the entire world. It never rained where the two of you lived, so he kept pillows and blankets in the back the whole summer, always ready to pick you up and drive somewhere so the two of you could watch the stars. 

You were laying on your back, tucked under Frankie’s arm, head resting on his shoulder as you watched the night sky. His other arm was tucked behind his head, relaxed and happy, like he had been the entire summer, with you. 

“Are you ever gonna get out of this town, Frankie?”

He hums, and you can feel the vibrations of his chest under your hand. “Maybe. Why? Are you tryin’ to get rid of me, sweetheart?”

You frown, smacking his chest lightly. “Never, Francisco.” You snuggle closer, gripping the fabric of his shirt a little tighter. “But you deserve more than a small-town life. You’re destined for better than this, Francisco Morales.” 

“And you’re not?”

His words are soft, but in the silence of the night, you hear him loud and clear. You shrug. “My folks want me to stay at home, find a nice man and get settled down, popping out kids left and right. That’s all that anyone’s ever expected of me, you know that.”

He must hear something in your voice, because he sits up, pulling you up with him. His thumb and forefinger grasp your chin, turning you to face him. “Sweetheart, you can do so much better than that.” His other hand strokes your hair, tucking it behind your ear and away from your eyes. “It should be about what  _ you _ want, not what people expect.”

You smile, leaning forward to kiss him. “How is it you always know exactly what to say, Frankie?” He doesn’t answer, opting instead to kiss you again. And again, and again. As you lose yourself in his embrace for the thousandth time, with the stars as your witness, you swear to yourself that you will always love this man.

***

_ “A friend to all is a friend to none _

_ Chase two girls, lose the one _

_ When you are young,  _

_ they assume you know nothing.” _


	3. the last great american dynasty

His mother tried to ban you from the funeral. She failed, but gossip travels fast in your little town, and soon, everyone was whispering about how your fiancé’s family must  _ hate _ you to try and ban you from his funeral. 

If you were being honest, they weren’t wrong. Your future mother-in-law had never liked you, calling you names–gold-digging bitch was her favorite–behind your back, and your future father-in-law was a smarmy old man who you’d caught staring at your chest once too many times. Despite them, you’d loved your fiancé. Really, you had. 

It had stunned you when you’d gotten the call. You were home, working on dinner, and when your cell rang, and Charlie’s name and face had popped up, you’d answered without a second thought, only to drop the phone in shock when the voice on the other end told you that he’d collapsed at work, and was en route to the hospital. You’d rushed there straight away, but by the time you’d arrived, more bad news awaited you.

“Please, my fiancé, Charles Pennington, he was just brought in, I got a call, how is he?”

Before the nurse at the reception desk can tell you anything, you hear your name being called. You turn, and there stands a man in scrubs, and you can immediately tell from the look on his face that it’s not good news. 

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry, but your fiancé didn’t make it.”

You hear the words, but don’t quite process what he’s saying. “B–But, but Charlie wasn’t sick, I–I, I don’t understand–” 

The doctor cuts you off, a sympathetic look on his face. “It was a brain aneurysm. There was nothing we could do, he passed away almost immediately. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

You don’t really remember much of what happened after that. You know that you must have called Charlie’s parents to inform them, but you don’t remember most of the conversation. You were in a daze, moving sluggishly, as though the air had the consistency of syrup. None of it felt real. You had the unsettling feeling as though you weren’t in control of your body, as though you were watching someone else pull the strings. The one event that  _ does  _ stand out with startling clarity is when Mrs. Pennington slapped you across the face in the middle of the hospital waiting room. It was as if her slap had jolted you back into awareness, albeit a bit painfully. 

You watched, a little dazed, as two orderlies rushed forward to physically hold her back, but nothing could hold back the vitriol spewing from her lips. She was cursing your name, calling you a murderer and a killer, blaming you for her precious baby’s death. You knew that some of the hospital staff would just see it as a grief-stricken mother, striking out at the world for her pain, but you also knew that some wouldn’t. 

So, you weren’t exactly surprised when the police got involved. Neither of the officers who questioned you seemed to believe the rumors, but the Pennington family  _ was _ exceedingly wealthy, so when the heir to the family fortune died unexpectedly, and rather young too, people began to wonder. Your family had been upper middle class, at best, despite your mother’s best efforts. Many people wondered why the Pennington heir would want to marry someone…  _ beneath _ him. 

You’d heard practically every rumor under the sun, ranging from reasonable to downright insane. Seriously, one woman thought you’d  _ hypnotized _ Charlie to get him to marry you. You hadn’t done anything underhanded at all, though. You weren’t even trying to get his attention, but when Charlie had asked you out, you hadn’t said no. You’d been so desperate to forget–

No.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the memories. But in spite of your efforts, they came flooding in, flashing behind your eyes like an old film reel. 

You’d been  _ so _ in love with Frankie, it had physically made you sick to leave him. You hated yourself for it, but you’d been unable to watch his downward spiral. You’d moved, trying to start a new life, and when you’d met Charlie–a man who was the complete and utter opposite of Frankie, coincidentally of course–you’d practically jumped at the chance for a new life. And you’d been happy.

Or maybe you’d become so good at lying you’d convinced yourself that you were happy. Why else would you be here, standing in the bathroom of the church, trying to figure out why you weren’t crying at your fiancé’s funeral. 

It wasn’t like you weren’t sad, because you were. You’d been engaged to marry Charlie, and you wouldn’t have accepted his proposal if you didn’t love him. But now that he was gone, it was as though your feelings had died with him. You weren’t  _ relieved _ , but you couldn’t deny that you felt lighter now that you wouldn’t become Mrs. Charles Pennington in a few weeks. 

You could lie to yourself, and say that it was because of his–quite frankly  _ horrid _ –parents. Or you could say that it was because you just weren’t ready to get married yet. But you knew that neither of those reasons were the truth.

The truth was, you were still in love with Frankie. No matter how much you tried to deny it, you knew it was true. You’d tried to forget him with  _ everything  _ you had, but it hadn’t worked. Little things reminded you of Francisco Morales everywhere you went. 

Sitting in a bar, you could feel the gentle pressure of his hand on your thigh. Driving down the highway, you found yourself reaching out as though to hold his hand over the console in your car. You  _ never _ ate frozen yogurt anymore, and you had to shove your favorite sweatshirt into the back of your closet because it was  _ Frankie’s _ sweatshirt and you couldn’t look at it without crying. 

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, and you were disgusted. You’d become everything your mother and father ever wanted, and you hated it. You’d been ready to settle down and become a housewife, which you’d sworn you’d never do. You’d been trying so hard to cut Frankie out of your life that you’d lost yourself in the process. 

Plastering a neutral expression on your face, and left the bathroom to mingle and accept condolences when offered, for as long as was polite. You pointedly ignored Mr. and Mrs. Pennington, keeping your head high, even as thinly-veiled insults and barbs were thrown your way. 

But, as soon as you were able, you left. You left the funeral home, the house, everything. You took only what was yours, and hopped on the road, hoping that maybe, you’d find a chance to find yourself again.

***

_ “Who knows, if I never showed up, what could’ve been. _

_ There goes the loudest woman this town has ever seen. _

_ I had a marvelous time ruining everything.” _


	4. exile

You smiled as Charlie rambled on about his work, waving his hands around, his face animated as he told you about how he’d closed a business deal earlier that day. The two of you had gone out to dinner, and although the restaurant was somewhat nicer than you’d been used to, you were enjoying yourself. You’d been dating Charlie for close to three years now, and it had been wonderful. Charles Pennington was a perfect gentleman, and considering he was heir to Pennington Incorporated–a multi-billion dollar business–it made sense that he was always impeccably dressed, with impeccable manners. 

His mother  _ hated  _ you, but she pretended to tolerate you, for the sake of her son. She was sure you were using him for his money, but she couldn’t have been further from the truth. His father, on the other hand,  _ loved _ you, or at least he loved to stare at you. Mr. Pennington had an unfaithful streak a mile wide, evidenced by the number of scandalous articles written about him, detailing trysts with pretty much any female that would breathe in a two foot radius from him. 

Even in spite of his parents, you loved Charlie. He was kind, and he treated you well. He was wealthy, and somewhat famous, exactly what your mother had always wanted for you. You hadn’t been poor growing up–far from it, your family was upper middle class–but your mother always wanted  _ more _ . So when she’d found out you were dating, she was over the  _ moon _ .

You didn’t particularly care what she thought, but it was nice for her to not be nagging you about your choice of partner every time the two of you talked.

“Darling, I have a question for you.”

You focused back on Charlie, feeling embarrassed that you’d been caught daydreaming. You nodded, gesturing for him to continue. 

Your eyes widened as instead of speaking, Charlie slid off of his chair, and moved to kneel on the ground in front of you. You covered your mouth with one hand, less out of surprised happiness and more out of stunned shock. He pulled a small, black velvet box out of his suit pocket, and your eyes flickered back and forth from his to that little box. You really shouldn’t have been as stunned as you were, but you’d never imagined that Charlie would actually  _ propose  _ to you. And now it was happening. In a public restaurant. Surrounded by  _ people _ .

“My beloved, you are more dear to me than all of my possessions, my wealth, and my company. Would you do me the greatest honor, and become my wife?”

You could practically  _ feel _ the stares of the people around you, everyone waiting on bated breath for you to speak. There was really only one answer you could choose. 

“Of course, of course I’ll marry you Charlie,” your answer was barely louder than a whisper, but with the silence in the restaurant, everyone hears you. Cheers and applause breaks out, and Charlie pulls the ring from the box, sliding it onto your finger. He presses a kiss to the ring, and you stare at it, noticing how large the emerald cut diamond is. It was never something you would have picked for yourself, but you can admit that it is a gorgeous ring. 

Charlie moves off the ground and back to his seat, nodding graciously as the wait staff rush over with complimentary champagne and dessert. The manager even comes out to congratulate the two of you, as well as to inform Charlie that both your meals are on the house. You’re embarrassed by all the attention, and as soon as you’re able, you excuse yourself to the ladies room. 

The bathroom is, thankfully, empty. You move over to the sink, turning on the cold water, and splashing some on your warm cheeks. You stare at your appearance in the mirror, taking in the expensive dress and jewelry, immaculate makeup and perfectly done hair-do. Your eyes fall once more on the ring adorning your left hand–huge and expensive–heavy on your finger. You feel…  _ odd _ , when you look at it. Whenever you imagined a ring on that finger, it didn’t look anything like this. 

Shaking your head, you dry your hands and pat your cheeks dry as well, leaving the bathroom to head back to your table. You exit into the hallway, only for a hand to land on your upper arm. You turn quickly, and your eyes widen in surprise. 

“W–What the–” your voice shakes as your heart flutters traitorously. “Frankie, what are you doing here?” 

Your ex-boyfriend is standing before you, in a  _ suit _ , of all things. A quiet little voice in the back of your head forces you to notice how handsome he looks, but you quash that voice as quickly as possible. He’s looking at you sheepishly, his hand rubbing nervously at the back of his neck, a habit he’s had the entire time you’ve known him. 

“I–I, I’m here with some friends, we’re celebrating Joshua’s engagement.” 

You nodded, remembering Joshua from high school. He’d been Frankie’s next door neighbor growing up, and although you hadn’t known him well, you were happy for him. 

“Well, good for him,” you said, inwardly cringing at how awkward you sounded. “I, um… I didn’t know he lived in town.”

Frankie shrugged. “He doesn’t but Cathy, his fiancée, does. We, uh, well, the guys drove down to help him surprise her.”

You nodded, shuffling back and forth on your tall heels. The silence between the two of you dragged on, and finally, you had to break it. “Well, I should head back, I–”

You were mid turn, throwing your thumb over your shoulder to gesture behind you when Frankie’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. You’re pulled back suddenly, and as you spin back around, you lose your balance, nearly falling if it weren’t for Frankie’s arm around your waist, hauling you upright and into his chest. 

Your hands land on his chest, clutching reflexively at his suit jacket, and his hand is still firmly around your wrist. You blink up at him for a moment, feeling your heart stutter at the look of longing in his eyes. Forcefully ignoring the fluttering of butterflies in your stomach, you swallow harshly and look away.    


“Frankie, let me go–”

“Wait. Please–”

You’re already shaking your head, pointedly avoiding his eyes. “No, Frankie I can’t, don’t do thi–”

You cut off abruptly when Frankie slides his crooked forefinger underneath your chin, slowly lifting your head so that you’re looking him in the eye. “Please,  _ mi amor _ , I just have one question.”

You bite your lip, trying hard to hold back the tears you know are coming. When you don’t say anything, Frankie takes that as an agreement, and speaks.

“Does he make you happy?”

You’re stunned, and your mouth falls open as you stare at Frankie. There’s a lump in your throat, and you struggle for words.

“I just,” Frankie sighs, shaking his head. “I need to know. Are you happy with him?”

You swallow again, but your mouth is dry, and you can feel the tears pooling in your eyes. You have to physically fight to open your mouth and push the words out, even with the voice in the back of your head yelling in protest. 

“Yes, he does make me happy, Francisco.” 

You wince when his full name slips out, and you can see the pain in his eyes. You  _ know _ how it makes him feel when you say his full name, and for a second, you hate yourself for causing him pain, before you remember that you shouldn’t have that power over him anymore. 

Frankie slowly lets his arm drop from around your waist, and you shiver at the absence of warmth. His thumb brushes against your cheek, and you realize you’re crying. 

“I’m glad,” he whispers, before stepping back, further away from you. “You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

You stare at him for a moment, before turning and beginning to walk away, but not before hearing his whispered parting words.

“I’m just sorry it couldn’t be with me.”

***

_ “I think I’ve seen this film before _

_ And I didn’t like the ending. _

_ You’re not my homeland anymore. _

_ So what am I defending now?” _


	5. my tears ricochet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of drug use, slightly vague descriptions of actual drug use, mentions of depression. This work may be triggering for some, so please, please, read these warnings before you read this story. 
> 
> PLEASE READ THIS! This is not a joke, this chapter is very heavy, both in terms of emotion and content. This chapter is from Frankie’s point of view, and deals with themes of depression, and drug use. While I personally have never done cocaine, so the writing about that is limited to internet research, I do currently, and have for years, suffered from depression. So, trust me on this, I am not saying this lightly. IF YOU ARE WORRIED THAT THIS CHAPTER MAY TRIGGER YOU, PLEASE DO NOT READ IT. I understand that different things trigger different people, and it would break my heart if one of you accidentally read this chapter without knowing ahead of time what it contains. I will leave a TL;DR in the end notes, so please read that if you are worried about reading this chapter.

He watched as the love of his life walked away from him, so different and yet somehow still the same as you were three years ago when you’d walked out of his life. 

He watched until you were out of sight, the skirt of your dress swishing around your legs, the high heels clicking quietly on the marble floors. It physically pained him to let you walk away, but he knew there was nothing he could do. 

You’d lied to him. 

He knew that.

Of course he knew. He’d known you since the two of you had been seven years old, you couldn’t lie to him any more than he could lie to you. So when you’d said you were happy, that Chase or Christian or whoever made you happy, he’d seen the lie in your eyes. But he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. 

You were the most stubborn person he’d ever met, and he knew that if he tried to call you on the lie, you’d deny and deny until you were blue in the face. So he’d let you go, and watched you walk away, knowing that you weren’t telling him the truth, but letting you go nonetheless. 

Frankie sighed deeply, running a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. The last thing he’d expected was to run into you here, but now that he had, he was confronted with all of the feelings he’d tried to shove deep down when you’d left. He knew it was his fault you’d left, and he’d never once blamed you, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. 

He should have known that his addiction would lead to this. You were strong, stronger than anyone he’d ever met, but he couldn’t expect you to shoulder his burdens as well as his own, it wasn’t fair. He’d already lost you once before–although, admittedly, that one was less his fault and more a combination of misunderstanding and scheming mothers and jealous classmates–and he’d sworn he wouldn’t let you go again, but he had. How could he try to hold onto you, when being with him was causing you so much pain?

He’d seen it in your eyes that night, when you’d come home to him, and he’d been high off his ass. The pain and sadness, the desperation as you tried to get him to understand. It hadn’t really clicked until the next morning that you weren’t coming back. He’d wanted to rage, to scream at the sky, to throw the blame on anyone and anything–except for you,  _ never  _ on you–but he hadn’t. It had been no one’s fault but his. 

He left the hallway, stopping briefly at the table to congratulate Joshua once more, before heading outside. He pointedly ignored your table, ignored how your fiancé was already planning your wedding, ignored how you didn’t seem invested at all, but were pretending all the same. 

He’d heard the man’s proposal, and if he were being truthful, it sickened him. It had been everything you’d never wanted, a public proposal, a huge and expensive ring, and strangers falling over themselves to congratulate the happy couple. 

He still remembered when you’d talked about marriage, back when the two of you were still young. How you’d declared that you didn’t want anyone to witness the proposal, that you wanted it to be between you and your future husband. How you didn’t want an expensive, store bought ring, but one that  _ meant _ something. You’d said you wanted to be able to spend time alone with your fiancé after he’d proposed, because you’d said that was going to be the most romantic moment of your life, and you wanted time alone to  _ savor _ that. And you’d not gotten any of what you’d dreamed about. 

Not to mention what that man had actually said to you when he’d asked for your hand. Frankie could hardly believe his ears when he’d heard the words leave that man’s mouth. More dear to him than all of his possessions, his wealth, and his company? First of all, who the fuck even spoke that way? And second, was that all Chris or Chad– _or_ _whatever the fuck his name was_ –thought of you? As another object? Another _possession_? 

He’d wanted to punch the self-absorbed bastard in the face, but he didn’t have that right, not anymore. Not after he’d fucked everything up.

Frankie sat in his truck resting his head on his forearms as they lay on his steering wheel. He’d thought it had been painful thinking he’d never see you again, but he’d been wrong. Seeing you again, _touching_ _you again_ , had been the most painful thing he’d ever endured, more than any bullet wound or cocaine withdrawal. Seeing you with someone else, touching you and knowing you weren’t his, and he wasn’t yours, it broke his fucking heart. 

He sat in silence in his truck for a long time before he mustered up the strength to turn on the engine, and pull out of the parking lot. 

The drive to his hotel wasn’t long, but he didn’t remember any of it. Almost like he’d blinked, and he was there. Trudging up the stairs to his room, he stumbled under the oppressive weight of  _ sorrowsadnesspain _ that lay across his shoulders like chains, trying to pull him under the waves of emotion crashing over his head.

It took him longer than it should have to turn the key in the lock, and he barely got the door closed and locked behind him before he was collapsing on the bed, curling in on himself. He  _ hated _ the feeling of pain, of sorrow, of  _ heartbreak _ that was practically consuming him, but some sick, twisted part of his mind hissed that he  _ deserved it _ ,  _ all he’d ever do was disappoint people, why did he keep trying? He was useless, he was hopeless, he was an addict, he was a failure, a waste of space, he _ –

Frankie curled his fingers into his hair, tugging harshly at the strands as he struggled to shove the malicious voice back into it’s box in his mind. It wasn’t easy, the voice didn’t want to go away without a fight, and by the time it was finally quiet, Frankie found he had a  _ pounding _ headache. 

He didn’t even think as he reached across the bed to his suitcase, pulling out the small bag of white powder that haunted him. He  _ knew  _ he shouldn’t, he  _ knew _ how stupid it was, but his hands were already going through the practiced motions, and he didn’t have the strength or the will to stop them. 

As the burning sensation filled his nostrils, quickly followed by the numbness he ached for, Frankie finally let the tears he’d been holding back roll down his cheeks. 

***

“ _ And I can go anywhere I want _

_ Anywhere I want, just not home. _

_ And you can aim for my heart, _

_ go for blood _

_ But you would still miss me in your bones.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR: Frankie struggles with seeing you with another man, knowing that you’re lying about being happy. He has a lot of self-reflection and self hatred about losing you. He has a depressive episode and uses cocaine at the end of the chapter.


End file.
